February 01, 1999. The magically enhanced calendar hanging above the mantle of the fireplace made the date obvious for all who looked upon it. As if any could forget. There had been an attack five days ago, out of the blue, and six people had been taken from the home of Andromeda Tonks. There was no word on whether or not they were alive… or even who had taken them. Yes, the war had ended almost a year ago in name, but there were still many supporters of the late Tom Riddle's regime, followers of a creature who had preached on the importance of blood purity and had died less than the man he had been born as.
Blood purity had not been an outward issue since. The Ministry, as well as the Wizengamot, had played catch up rather quickly in order to appease the British magical community, as well as those affected who were not British, or even magical, proving once again that they were not bound by any sort of regulation that they might believe themselves to be, but by what the majority of people with the most power and influence wanted. New Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, member of the Order of the Phoenix, had been doing his best in the months since his appointment to completely overhaul the Ministry, but such a thing had taken him longer than one might have expected. Firm regulations had been put in place to disallow anyone from working there who did not have the proper background and training, and to put a stop to a rampant underhanded favoritism and barter system which the Ministry had become known for. Many had been fired that did not meet the new Ministerial requirements, being told that if they liked the career they were in, then they should attain the proper requirements and apply once they had done so, being forced to start at the bottom and work their way up to where they wanted to be just like everybody else.
Also new was a mandate stipulating that anybody to be on trial would have the mandatory option of allowing themselves to be questioned under the effects of Veritaserum, as well as having their memories examined by a new team of the MLE that were specially trained in the observation and examination of said memories. Asininely archaic were the practices of sentencing and/or absolving of crimes without proper investigation. Those who had been sentenced previously to Kingsley being elected as Minister were allowed to have their cases reopened, if they felt they had been charged unfairly or unjustly. Things in the government definitely seemed to be taking a turn uphill. Along with making the Ministry and proceedings within law enforcement more just, laws of being overturned, as well as new ones being executed, in order to prevent prejudice. Werewolves, vampires, and other creatures of such were no longer required to identify themselves as such, except for in their personal files, where personal details concerning every free thinking resident of the British magical world were recorded in the event where they were pulled in for something or other by law enforcement.
The last adjustment to the law had only occurred a mere two weeks ago, and most in the Order believed that the kidnappings of those at the Tonks residence had been carried out because a large number of those in the Order had been pushing for the modifications to the Ministry. This point was driven home by the fact that Hermione Granger, the witch who had pushed strongly for said last adjustment, had been one of the kidnapped.
The ornate grandfather clock, left of the fireplace, chimed out with eleven booming groans, and Ronald Weasley, who had been sitting silently on a dark leather couch for over an hour now, staring at a Muggle chess set, jumped. Nearly simultaneously, the double doors of the library were pushed open, allowing in a frantic Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, the latter who looked as if he hadn't seen a wink of sleep the night before. Ron turned around to look at the pair, showing clear signs upon his pale face that sometime previous he had let tears fall. Seeing who had entered, he turned back around, staring into the empty fireplace, the two other young men joining him. Nobody spoke, and aside from a tilted nod of acknowledgment to one another, no communication passed. As the new hour passed on, two of the boys grew more frantic, fidgeting and glancing upwards towards the clock and calendar more frequently. The third of the group did the opposite, becoming even more still and tense than he already was, a seeming improbable feat. As the hour drew on, more seemed to gather in the library. Sirius came first, taking a spot against the wall to the left of the doors, as if attempting to mold himself into the very foundation of the building. Soon after him was Molly, led by Bill. His wife, Fleur, and Pansy Parkinson, who was never far from the female head of the Weasley clan after she'd taken Pansy under her wing, trailed behind. Both were pregnant. While Fleur was openly crying, Pansy showed no apparent sign of distress, her calm demeanor only given away by a tremor in her left hand that wouldn't seem to give. As Molly and Fleur sat in a loveseat, Bill took his place behind them, somehow managing to appear stoic and yet disastrously troubled all at once. Pansy took a seat in between Ron and Harry, taking Ron's hand in the process. He, in turn, seemed to somehow unwind just a tad at the comforting touch .They were not together, and never had been, but the budding friendships after the end of the war had brought them close together, and their child would be due in just under two months, a little girl. George was next, fiercely holding the hand of his wife Angelina. They'd finally finished putting to bed their twins, making it down just five minutes before the clock would begin its 12am countdown.
Five
Ron shifted on the couch, tearing his gaze from the fireplace and back towards the chess set, somewhat hoping that running through the strategies of the game would be an adequate distraction from the tragedies of the present… as if maybe the hour would strike and the sorrows wouldn't adorn the room like Christmas decorations anymore.
Four
Pansy met the eyes of Molly, giving a slight smile towards the older woman, and squeezed harder the hands of both Harry and Ron. She'd grasped them as the last stragglers had ambled in, and hadn't been able to let go until this moment. In doing so, she made a move as if to hug herself, placing her arms around her growing stomach… as if to draw the comforting innocence of the child inside her womb around her, to protect her from whatever coming fate were to occur.
Three
As Molly drew her eyes from the somewhat solemn girl adjacent to her, the girl who would be giving Molly her third official grandchild, she let them fall upon the young man directly across from her. He looked unwell, not unusual considering the full moon had been just the night before, but more so. Draco Malfoy had never pretended with anybody to be anything other than a relative to his mother but Molly had sensed a growing warmth between the two… as if the distance between them were ebbing away as they come to know each other as son and mother… as loved ones. Along with dear, trying Narcissa, Andromeda and Teddy had both been taken… the only somewhat immediate living relatives that he had left.
Two
Bill's hand was on his wife's shoulder, whether to leverage some of his anxious fury onto somebody else or to keep him anchored to the reality of the love and support of those around him and beyond, he didn't know. He wasn't sure if he even cared to differentiate between the two, and if he did, now certainly wouldn't be the time. His father, his twinkly-eyed, brow-beaten, technology-loving dad was gone. They'd certainly had a bond, Bill and his pops… Bill had been his first, and something about that had bonded them in a way that they weren't bonded to anybody else. Father and son; if anything were to happen to Arthur, that would make Bill man of the house… the technical head male of the family… but Bill couldn't think of that, not now, and hopefully not for a long, long while. So he gripped Fleur's shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to banish the images that kept popping up there… as if such a simple thing as eyelid movement could clear the erratic terror in his very being.
One
Angelina Weasley, née Johnson had married George three hours before the Final Battle had occurred. They'd rather optimistically informed the Ministry Official that it might give them good luck in the coming days… as if the wonderful good their union created might fizzle out some of the bad that was seemingly present everywhere. They hadn't told anybody but Fred, who was their sole familial witness to the occasion. And then, that same night… the night they should be celebrating, the night that would go down in history… Fred was just gone, a smile on his face and a heart that hadn't let the impossible darkness of the war bring him any less joy… he was gone. It had affected her husband in ways that nobody had even considered preparing to expect. He refused to eat for the first four days, and eventually needed to be hospitalized to keep him from dying. He wouldn't look in mirrors, had died his hair a shade of brown… most alarmingly, he hadn't laughed, not even a snicker, for the first four months, not until their twins, Fred II and Roxanne, had been born. They'd been tiny little things, and her pregnancy had barely showed, a fact that had everyone startled when they'd found out from the Healers how far along she was. The twins had needed to stay at St. Mungos for two months before they'd been able to come home. George… well, he was doing better now, but for this to happen, just when so much good was beginning… it had thrown him through a loop… it had thrown all of them through a loop. Angelina hadn't stopped praying since the moment the news had come to their ears that everything would turn out alright.
The grandfather clock let out its booming clang, and despite the many pairs of eyes that had been keeping track of its movements, several had started at the noise. The others just kept on waiting… watching… trying to finish preparing themselves but not really knowing how, or even for what. Ron, near frozen on the couch for all but his mouth, asked the question that nobody had any sort of answer to.
"What… what happens if… what if no-" He takes in a breath. A long, shuttering gasp for air that sounds as if he hasn't taken in a proper breath in days before readying himself the best he can to finish what he'd started, "What if nobody comes through?" Pansy reaches over and grasps his hand, but nobody answers him. Nobody has to. The silence is enough.
The last clang sounds hollow in the great room they all reside in, and as it fades, every last eye moves to the fireplace… the fireplace that begins to emit jade flames, popping out relatives and relations that those gathered in Grimmauld Place hadn't seen for nearly a week. Andromeda came first, holding a swaddled and flailing Teddy in her arms. The one year old was red faced and dirty, and a smell terribly ferocious came from the pair. With the grateful sigh of a parched man discovering water, the entire room moved at once, a synchronized dance of bodies who had unintentionally memorized the best routes to caring and healing those damaged by battle. Andromeda fell into the waiting arms of Fleur, Teddy into Harry's, as Pansy racing towards a table to the right of the melee to her mix of potions, mumbling under her breath and taking quick looks towards Andromeda and Teddy while making wide and swooping gestures with her wand to get the correct diagnoses.
The two returned were led towards where Pansy was waiting, being sat down and handed various potions to take. While Andromeda promptly swallowed them down, regaining color and vitality near immediately, Harry was having a harder time of getting the sniffling Teddy to take the liquids, that in the first place, probably didn't taste very appealing, especially for a one year old. Fleur, the Healer of the group, ran her own set of diagnostics, conferring with Pansy, and the two women, after Andromeda and Teddy had taken the basic healing and antibiotic potions, started to come up with a game plan in order to treat the two that had come through. Minutes later, people were starting to get worry. Was this grandmother and grandson all that was left? Molly was still frozen on the couch where she'd been originally, but now, her nails were tangled into her hair and wheezing sobs rocked her body. Bill sat with her, an arm around her shoulders, his own tears falling down his face.
But then the fireplace was raging greed fire once again, and stumbling out was Arthur, holding a lifeless Ginny in his arms, and then Narcissa. The fireplace became empty and cold once again, the soot on the hardwood in front the only reminder of its previous life. As soon as she saw them stumble out, Molly sobbed harder, racing as fast as she could towards her husband and youngest child, words still too difficult to pronounce even now. Ginny still didn't move. Arthur, with bruises showing through his ripped robes, caked blood on his right temple, and a pronounced limp, nearly fell forward to place his still daughter on the couch.
"Please… please help her…" With that as his final, and only, words of that day, he collapsed as well, crumpling to the floor unconscious. Fleur and Pansy, done with the grandmother and grandchild at the moment, and who had already been heading towards them, crowded around the new set of patients. Sirius was handling the rest of the Weasley clan, who were all fighting to get to their unconscious loved ones. Forcibly, but not unkindly, a calming draught was given to Molly. And after some shouted words to Bill, who was then able to gather himself enough to recognize the need for his wife and Pansy to work in an organized environment, removed himself from the room, leading Molly to the kitchen. Sirius, who had sent a stunning spell towards Ron after he'd begun blaring out ear-piercing queries about injuries, all mixed in with a solid array of mixed expletives, levitated the nineteen year old out of the library, presumably up to one of the empty bedrooms above.
Draco, sitting by his mother on the recently vacated love seat, not touching but quickly mumbling to one another under their breath, seemed to be in much better spirits already. His ash and chrome eyes were brighter, and his cheeks seemed to have gained a bit of color. Draco had the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled to the elbow in order to grasp his wand that was hidden in its holder there… in doing so, a wrap-around bandage could be seen, running the length of the back of his forearm and disappearing under the cover of fabric. Narcissa was looking at it, troubled. It seemed entirely unfair that her son would suffer in such a way, every month, while the people that had taken her and the others had refused to even lay a hand on her besides making sure that she couldn't escape… all because of Pureblood archetypes. Narcissa looked back up and into the eyes of her grown child, and made to answer yet another question of his, doing her best to push the exhaustion from her features. She understood the importance of gathering information in haste. If even a detail was forgotten, it could change everything.
Across the room, George and Angelina, the only remaining and alert Weasley's in the area, had moved to do what they could. The young women who had placed themselves in charge of medical care had seemingly done all they could with Arthur and Ginny. As Fleur moved to evaluate Narcissa, who kept insisting that she was fine, Pansy levitated Arthur up to a room, Angelina following her example and levitating Ginny. George left the room, Flooing from a separate fireplace, first to St. Mungos, and then to the Ministry. Both needed to be alerted of the changed status of the kidnapping victims.
It seemed everything was coming to a reluctant peace, a stasis of needing to be able to offer so much more than they physically could, and not knowing what they should even offer at all. It was only after the returned had all been moved to separate rooms to rest and await specialized Healers from St. Mungos to deem them healthy and in good form that Ron, Harry, and Draco reconvened back into the library, a singular question on all of their minds that nobody had an answer to, even after Draco's pushing questions to his mother.
Why had Hermione not come through?
